THE MARINER'S GRAVE.

BY JOHN MALCOLM, ESQ.

I.

THE winds had ceased,-the moaning wave

Gave up its dead unto the shore, To sleep within a calmer grave, Where storms can reach no more. Unfelt by him, the summer day, And winter night may glide away; And suns and seasons vainly roll Above his dark and final goal.

II.

The stranger; of a land unknown;

His name,

his place of birth, untold;

He rests where no recording stone

His story may unfold.

Where but the hollow-sounding surge
Howls to the wind his ceaseless dirge;
And seafowl, o'er his grave that sail,

Shriek forth a wild, funereal wail.

III.

Perchance, a husband and a sire!

For him, his long-expectant mate
Hath fondly trimmed her evening fire,
And kept her vigils late ;-
And taught her babes, with pious care,
To bear upon their infant prayer,

At rise of dawn and fall of day,
Their absent father, far away.

IV.

Perchance, while ocean's wastes he ranged, And native shades, in dreams, were near, And love's rewarding hour,- he changed The bridal for the bier!

While she, the widowed and unwed,

The pale betrothed of the dead!

Long watched his bark, that from the main

Ne'er reared her cloud of sail again.

V.

But where he sleeps, no mourners grieve,—
No tribute to his tomb is given,—

No sighs, except the sighs of eve,—
No tears, but those of heaven!

Yet, more sublime than grandeur's tomb,
That towers beneath a temple's dome,
Is his—the nameless stranger's grave,
Here, by the dirge-resounding wave.

GRASMERE.

THE gates and everlasting doors on high
Are opened, and the stars their courses hold
Rejoicing, while the moon along the sky

In brightness walks, and paints with umbered gold
The woodlands, rocks, and mountains that enfold
The vale where Grasmere's waters sleeping lie,
Or hushed in adoration; for, of old

They hear, and without answer give reply
To that oraculous canticle, where day

With day, and night with night accordant blend
Their warblings, till the universal lay
-Up to the hierarchies of heaven ascend,
With them joint homage jubilant to pay
In strains that never rest, and never end.

H.

THE GROTTO OF AKTELEG.

An Hungarian Legend.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE MUMMY.'

NEAR the village of Azelas in Hungary, is an immense cavern, or rather, a vast succession of caverns, extending for many miles under ground, and known by the general name of the Grotto of Akteleg.' Nothing can be more romantic than its situation: fir and box trees cover the steep hills in its vicinity, and fields of Turkish maize fertilize the valleys; the bright yellow of the corn, as the tall stalks wave in the passing gale, and their heavy heads dash against each other, contrasting strikingly with the dark masses of the fir and the glossy verdure of the box.

This wild, solitary-looking spot, which is now almost inaccessible even to the foot of man, was once, according to tradition, a splendid city; indeed, traces are still pointed out, of the carriage wheels which once rolled through its streets; whilst the altar, pillars, and sculptures of its magnificent cathedral may also be discovered

through the mass of stalactites which now encrust them, and which reflect back the torch of the inquisitive visitor in a thousand varied tints. Dazzling, indeed, is the magical effect of this spacious cavern, when lights flash through its dark recesses. It resembles a crystal palace, whose walls, hung with diamonds and a thousand other precious stones, are so brilliant as to make the eye ache with beholding them ;-vault after vault thus sparkles with ineffable brightness, till the spectator almost fancies himself in the paradise of the Chaldeans, and turns away at length bewildered by the blaze. One chamber is, however, an exception to this description; for in that, all is dark, save a single pillar of pale amber, emitting a mild, softened light; which, when compared with the intensity of the glare in the entrance to the cave, falls upon the eye like faint moon-beams feebly struggling through the deep shadows of a thick grove. Soothing is the effect produced upon the mind by this gentle lustre ; but the pleasing sensations it excites are soon converted into astonishment-for when the pillar is struck with iron, it sends forth tones so plaintive and so sweet that few can hear them without emotion. The legend annexed to this singular phenomenon is far from being uninteresting.

In the reign of the apostate Julian, Akteleg was the metropolis of a flourishing kingdom; the monarch of which a stern, avaricious man-eagerly followed the example of the emperor, and endeavoured to restore Paganism throughout his dominions. Although he was,